The Head and The Heart
by kateface1993
Summary: A lonely Sherlock retreats to his Mind Palace to escape the emptiness left by John, but soon learns even his own thoughts can't save him. / Post-Season 3, rated T for language, the angst is strong with this one.


"_There's a possibility_

_All that I had was all I'm gon' get._

_Know that when you leave_

_By blood and by me, I fall when you leave."_

"Dammit!"

Sherlock shook his hand violently through the air, his burning fingertips aggravating his nerves. Angrily he turned off the burner and left the kitchen. He stormed to his chair and flopped down heavily, huffing and puffing.

"Bored" he murmured under his breath.

Though deep in his mind he knew this was not the case. Sherlock wasn't bored, no. He was a lot of things. He was sad, remorseful, lost.

But above all, he was lonely.

Sherlock shook his head. He couldn't be lonely, he was Sherlock Holmes, the great consulting detective, the man who put his complete focus into murders and mysteries and criminal investigations. He was above the common people. He didn't have common needs. He didn't feel as common people felt.

He looked at the chair in front of him. A small layer of dust rested in the creases.

John had been living elsewhere for years now. And ever since Sherlock returned, it had been just him. (With the exception of Mrs. Hudson checking on him every now and then.) He had a few offers of new flat mates, but none of them were good enough.

"_You talk too much."_

"_I can smell you from the other room."_

"_You don't wipe your feet when you enter the building."_

Mrs. Hudson mentioned that he could get a pet.

"_Cats shed and are too curious for their own good."_

"_Dogs need too much attention. I rarely remember to feed myself, how am I supposed to remember to feed a dog?"_

"_A bunny? Really?"_

Sherlock sat in his chair, looking around the empty flat, unknowingly fiddling with his burnt fingers.

"Bored" he murmured again, though instead it came out "alone".

He grumbled and leaned his elbows on his knees, fingers steepled in front of his lips. Why was he in such a mood? Why was he feeling so…alone? Technically he's spent most of his life alone, but never before has he felt left behind, forgotten, abandoned…

…lonely.

A quick thought came to him. There was one thing that he could always depend on to distract him: his mind palace. Almost excitedly he closed his eyes and allowed himself to get lost in the deepest recesses of his brain. Of course, the first thing he runs into is Moriarty. The consulting criminal was now back (or was he?) and it was up to him to stop the madman. Except there was no information to go on. The signal from the video stream played throughout England was untraceable. So instead, Sherlock relived how he stopped him the first time.

There was the rooftop.

And the confrontation.

Then the shooting that was supposed to be the end of Moriarty.

Sherlock looked around the rooftop, everything about the memory refreshing him. The smell in the air, the brisk wind, the uncertainty of what would come next. He'd already relived the part he had originally come here for: watching Moriarty die. But there was something about unfinished business that left a bad taste in his mouth, so he walked the same steps over to the ledge. He started to pull his phone out of his pocket when…

"I thought we agreed you'd stop coming here."

Sherlock spun around.

"John?"

The army doctor stood a few yards away, standing at Moriarty's body.

"Sherlock why are you back here? You promised you wouldn't come back."

Sherlock stepped back down off the ledge, confused.

"I…I had to. To examine Moriarty's death. To see if it were at all possible for him to be back."

John shook his head. "That's not why. I watched you. Moriarty just shot himself, and instead of examining the body or watching the shot from other angles, you just continued through with the motions."

"Old habits die hard I guess."

John laughed some and stepped over the body, making his way to Sherlock. "What is it?"

"What is what?"

"What's wrong with you?"

"I don't know what you mean."

"Of course you know what I mean. This _is_ your mind we're in. You know everything."

Sherlock remained silent.

John sighed. "Take a look." He pointed to the ledge.

Sherlock furrowed his brow, but looked over anyways.

"It's just the ground."

"Exactly. Just concrete and asphalt."

"I don't get it."

John put his hands behind his back. "Where's your phone?"

"It's right her-" Sherlock reached into his pocket but found it to be empty. He checked his other pockets. Empty. He looked around and spotted the mobile over near the body.

"Why is it over there?"

"Because you threw it."

"No I didn't. I haven't thrown it yet. I haven't messaged Mycroft or called you."

"Yet you still tossed it."

Sherlock stared hard at John. "What are you getting at?"

"You were about to jump Sherlock. You saw the ground. There was no airbag to catch your fall. You never texted Mycroft. And you never called me. You were about to jump and kill yourself."

"And why would I do that?"

"I don't know, why would you?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I hate when my own mind plays games with me."

"Then why don't you face the truth and end the game?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Again, I find that very hard to believe seeing that this is _your_ mind palace."

Sherlock grew frustrated. "Well, since it _is_ my mind palace, I'll just decide to go somewhere else." He closed his eyes, allowing his surroundings to fade and rearrange into a new memory. When he opened his eyes, he immediately recognized where he was. The long tables, the school room feel, the doors with the circular windows, the nighttime sky viewable outside. And, as expected, a white pill in his hand. A white pill with speckles. A white pill with speckles that could possibly end his life. A white pill with speckles that could possibly end his life that he _chose_.

He smiled at the pill, turning it about in his fingers. "So we meet again."

He lifted the pill to the light, examining everything he could about the capsule before slowly bringing its smooth surface to his lips.

"We talked about this place too Sherlock."

The pill clumsily fell from his hand, quietly hitting the floor. Sherlock stared hard at his ex-flatmate who stood just feet away from him.

"Aren't you supposed to be somewhere else protecting me? Say the building next door? With a gun in hand?"

"That moment's already come and passed."

"What?" Sherlock narrowed his eyes, then hesitantly looked down. At their feet was the cabbie, dead, sprawled in a pool of blood.

"But that doesn't make any sense. Why would I still be about to take the pill if you already shot him?"

"Same reason you nearly jumped off a building with no hope of surviving."

Sherlock angrily put his finger in John's face. "Stop it. Stop it right now. This is MY mind palace! I don't play games in MY mind palace! I don't get confused in MY mind palace!"

"Then stop playing games Sherlock! Stop acting confused! You know EXACTLY what is going on!"

Sherlock put his fingers to his temples and forced his eyes shut, blocking out John's desperate yells. Soon he felt the world around him shift yet again, and he opened his eyes to a new location. He let out a breath of relief.

"Crime scene of a murdered brother. Green ladder. Lestrade and a few others from Scotland Yard are here."

Most importantly, John wasn't there.

He hadn't met John yet.

Sherlock took a deep breath and went through the memory like clockwork. Yes he knew exactly where to look, yes he knew how it ended, but he didn't care. He happily took his time, reliving the moments of puzzle pieces clicking together, recalling the feeling of success. Once his time at the scene was up, he reiterated his findings to Lestrade, watching the detective inspector make the same faces as he had before.

As he walked away to the street to hail a cab, however, he was stopped. Sherlock gazed hesitantly at his pathway before him. Right there, in the middle of the sidewalk, was Mike Stamford. Stamford, one of the few men he could tolerate. The man who has helped him acquire medical equipment under sketchy circumstances. Someone he could trust just a little more than others.

Yet right now, Sherlock was scared of him.

Why was Sherlock scared of Mike Stamford? Why was he reluctant to pass a man who had never caused him any distress before? He began to back away slowly, turning around to head a different route, almost running right into…

"Dammit John what are you doing here?!"

"And where do you think you're going?"

"I'm going to catch a cab to head to Bart's of course!"

"Why aren't you going that way?"

"Because…I don't know. Why are you here anyways? You don't exist yet."

"Why are you avoiding Mike?"

"I'm not!"

"Not sure I believe that."

"Well believe whatever the hell you want! Apparently you do whatever you please as it is!"

"Why are you trying to forget me Sherlock?"

Sherlock froze, staring into the army doctor's frigid eyes. "What did you just say?"

"Will you please just tell me why? Why you're trying to shut me out?"

"John I…I don't…"

John looked down at the ground and swallowed hard, voice shaky. "Think about everywhere you've gone today in your mind palace. First you went to the place that was supposed to separate you and me forever. The place that changed everything. The place where you broke my heart. On that rooftop, you knew the outcome of your actions. You knew it would hurt me, doing that again.

"But you didn't care Sherlock. You didn't think about hurting me. You were selfish and only thought about how the outcome would hurt you. The first time you did it, back before it was a memory, you knew you'd live. You knew you'd live and maybe one day return to London as if nothing had changed. You _looked forward_ to returning. But when you did, you saw I had moved on with my life. And it broke you. It destroyed you. Just like you destroyed me. So what is your solution? What would you change?

"You would rather die than live with this heartache. You would put me through hell AGAIN, but oh, as long as the great Sherlock Holmes doesn't have to deal with it, who cares about how anyone else is affected?!"

"John-"

"Next was the school building with the cabbie. 'A Study in Pink'. That was not only our first case together, but that's where you realized what I meant to you. I _killed_ a man after only knowing you _one bloody day_. I murdered someone for you Sherlock, and you _still_ were about to take that damn pill! Why? Because you remember the night after it happened. You lay in bed, unable to sleep, because you're absolutely dumbfounded. You've always been able to pick people apart, and although you were able to read me like a book, I still wasn't typical. I was different. You couldn't accept the fact I'd end someone's life for you after just meeting you. It messed with your mind, but more importantly it pulled at your heart."

"Stop it."

"So, in that moment, you decided to take the pill anyways. You didn't know whether it was poison or not. In a way, you were hoping it _was_ the wrong pill. You were being selfish again. Do you even realize how much that would hurt me, knowing I'd just killed a man for you and you still ended up taking your own life? Of course you didn't think of that. All you thought of was the pain you were saving yourself. The man who had just saved your life was now something special to you, and you couldn't handle that. You couldn't handle anyone ever being special to you, no, that would mean actually _feeling something_."

"John I beg of you…"

"And now you're here, at a crime scene where I don't exist, yet here I am. Can you tell me why Sherlock? Can you tell me why I'm here?"

"John I can't-"

"Just tell me Sherlock! Tell me!"

Sherlock gazed into John's eyes. They were hard, cold, angry. Hurt. John was hurt. Sherlock couldn't bear to see John hurt.

He sighed. "Alright. Fine." He looked down the path at where Mike stood. "At this part, I walk down to Stamford. I give him a friendly hello, seeing that I'm in a weirdly pleasant mood. He asks me how I'm doing, then asks about Mrs. Hudson. I tell him I'm doing well, and that Mrs. Hudson is the same. He asks me if I still talk to my skull. I smile and tell him only when Mrs. Hudson hasn't taken it away from me. He laughs, and then tells me…"

Oh.

_Oh._

John takes a step closer. "Keep going."

"You already know what happens next."

"But I'm not supposed to be here, therefore I don't."

"John I can't do this for you. I'm sorry."

"This isn't for me Sherlock, this is for you."

Sherlock swallows down the lump that has made a home in his throat and warily looks over at Mike.

"He…he tells me…that I need a flatmate. And I tell him I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for. He asks why, and I explain how prior attempts never worked out. He then says that he'll keep an ear out for anyone looking. I scoff and tell him that it's no use. That's when he…asks me why. Why it's no use."

John's voice is broken, almost at a whisper. "And what do you say back to him?"

Sherlock fixes his eyes on the ground, reminding himself how to breathe. Then he looks up into John's eyes. They're no long the hardened eyes from before. They are the lively eyes of Dr. John Watson. They are the real eyes of the real man Sherlock knew and missed. They are John's eyes.

"'_Who would want me as a flatmate?'_"

The two stand there silently, staring into the other's heart and soul.

John finally speaks up. "Do you see now?"

Sherlock nods stiffly. "I do. I tried to go to my mind palace to escape. Instead I went to every spot that affected my future with you."

John flexed his hands at his sides. "Can you now answer my question?"

Sherlock's heart begins to race. "…question?"

"Why are you doing this? Why are you trying to forget me?"

He begins to panic. "No."

"Sherlock you have to face this."

"I can't."

"You can, and you must."

He starts to back away. "Leave me alone!"

"Isn't that the whole problem? That I left you, and now you're alone?"

"Stop it!" Sherlock's whole body was shaking. He forced his eyes shut, knowing there was only one place to go that he could truly escape John…

…he gasped for air as he returned to the real world. Sweat covered every inch of him, sticking his clothes to his chair. He looked around the empty flat, noticing hardly any time at all had passed. After spending a few minutes gathering his wits, Sherlock slowly stood up and made his way to the kitchen. He put on a kettle to boil and got a cup ready for tea.

"Really? Just one cup? You truly are selfish."

The cup fell from Sherlock's hand, shattering to the ground. He didn't even turn around. He couldn't. He was frozen.

"…how? How are you here?"

"I'm not here for long, don't worry."

Sherlock removed the kettle from the heat but did nothing more to make any tea. He walked almost robotically to his chair, sitting down slowly. Across from him sat John, in his own chair, watching him.

"Why are you here?" The words were barely audible, but of course John heard them.

"I'm here to say goodbye Sherlock."

A sudden explosion of pain tore through Sherlock's heart. This was too real. He couldn't take it, watching this man he had come to _obsess_ over tell him goodbye. He nearly doubled over, the burning of loss snaking its way through his veins.

"But...John…"

"This is what you want Sherlock. This is what you need."

"No…"

"You've been trying to escape me for so long. You've been desperately trying to cut me out of your life and toss me away."

"This isn't fair…I can't lose you again…"

"Yet here you've been trying to kill any and all thoughts of me. Don't you see Sherlock? You hold on with every fiber to us. To what we had. To what you _wanted_. Then you turn around and try to delete all memories of me. It's tearing you apart."

"I don't know what I'm doing John. I'm just in an off state of mind. Please don't do this to me. Not now."

"If not now when?"

"I don't know when but just not now. Please…"

Sherlock looked into John's eyes, hoping the doctor could see the pain he was causing. John was taking away the only thing that made Sherlock feel human. After faking his death, after watching John weep over his grave, Sherlock contemplated truly killing himself. He never realized how life would be without John; how big of a part John played. The only thing that saved him were the memories they shared, and the hope that one day they would be able to make more. He clung on to these hopes, so much so that they eventually morphed into dreams. He began to sleep more, knowing he would be able to see John in his slumber. And, without meaning to, Sherlock soon became infatuated with the army doctor.

He practically counted down the hours 'til he might be able to see his John again. Of course he looked forward to solving crimes again, chasing murderers, gathering evidence and such. But then there were little things he had never considered before…he looked forward to watching crap telly with him, to see what type of jam he used now, to clean the flat with him and argue over who does what. He couldn't wait to see John yawn again like he did every morning, coming down to the kitchen in his sleep clothes, stretching before sitting down at the table. He couldn't wait to see John smile, and perhaps be the reason behind it. Even the smallest things made Sherlock's heart pound, and though he couldn't explain it, these hopes are what kept him from dying for two years.

But when he returned, he was completely crushed. His heart split slowly and painfully in his chest, hurting him like he had never hurt before. Not only had John moved out, he had also moved on. John was in love. And it wasn't with him.

And now the doctor was trying to take away the last remaining speck of hope that he had left.

His ex-flatmate sat there, unwavering, watching his friend mentally crumble.

"Sherlock…you know I have to."

"No you don-"

"-yes, I do. It's time for me to be the selfish one. This is too much for you. It's killing you slowly. You can't let it go."

"I can let it go. I can if I tried hard enough."

"But that's the problem. You haven't tried. You won't try. You will never try."

"Okay so what?! It's MY mind if I want to be miserable then so be it!"

"Sherlock do you even realize what you're doing right now?"

Sherlock swallowed and furrowed his brow. "What do you mean?"

John scoffed and shook his head, pinching at his hairline. "You're arguing with a false memory about the state of your mind. You do see how that might come across as unstable right?"

Sherlock turned the corners of his mouth down and averted his eyes. "I suppose. But have I ever been considered 'stable'?"

John chuckled some, and Sherlock smiled slightly at him. For a moment, Sherlock briefly felt relieved. A tiny warmth swam through his heart as he saw his dear friend smile. His eyes fell to the floor, allowing the light-hearted feeling to fully sink in. The silence was pleasant.

But it didn't last long.

Sherlock traced his content gaze back up to John's face and froze. His jaw dropped slightly and his muscles tensed as he met John's tear-filled eyes. The army doctor was shaking as he attempted to hold back his sobs.

"I'm really going to miss you."

The doctor's words whispered and wobbled and came out in a mess. Sherlock stopped breathing and stared, shaking his head slightly.

"No…"

John inhaled sharply through his sniffling nose. "I have to do this. You know I do. You've been avoiding it since the day you came back…"

"John…"

"…but you can't avoid it any more. You have to do this…"

"_John…_"

"…you have to let me go."

Sherlock's breaths grew frantic. He didn't even attempt to hold back the tears. They soaked his cheeks and burned his eyes as they raced downward. His lip quivered uncontrollably and his throat restricted. He could feel his chest caving in on him.

He could feel his world caving in on him.

His words were barely a whisper.

"But I don't want to let you go."

John squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head. His shoulders bounced slightly as he tried to hold back his cries. He leaned forward, forcing himself to do breathing exercises to calm himself down. He was on the edge of a full on panic attack.

He barely lifted his head, his swollen eyes meeting the consulting detective's.

"Goodbye Sherlock."

"No!" Sherlock lunged forward to the floor, grabbing on to John's knee and curling up to it. "You can't! Not yet!"

"Sherlock stop it. You're making this harder than it needs to be."

"But…John…" Sherlock clutched onto the doctor's leg, placing his forehead on his knee, sitting in a begging position. It finally hit him. He finally saw the truth. "John…there's something I need to tell you."

"No, Sherlock-"

"John I have to. I never said before. I meant to say it on the roof. I meant to say it before I got on the plane. I've meant to say it for years, but I haven't."

"Sherlock…don't do this to me…"

"John…"

"Sherlock…"

Sherlock closed his eyes as years and years of clouds in his mind finally parted. The extreme realization shone down through them, and the storms in his heart subsided. His muscles relaxed and his body felt weightless. For the first time in Sherlock's life, his brain was clear, and his heart had a say. The war was over. The endless battles were done. He felt like one person, one single human being. Not many differing people trapped in one body. He was full. He was complete. The two halves of the puzzle finally fit together harmoniously in this single moment…

…the head and the heart agreed.

And he could now truthfully admit it.

He knew he had to look his friend in the eyes for this. He lifted his head as the courage tumbled out of him.

"John I love y-"

But John was not there.

No one was there.

Sherlock desperately looked around for an answer. He found that he was holding on to the arm of John's chair, grasping it so tightly his fingers left indents in the leather. The flat was dimmer than he had remembered, the sunlight retracting over the horizon, leaving the detective in the shadows. There was just enough light left that Sherlock could see the small layer of dust gathered in the creases of the chair.

No one had been sitting there.

No one had sat there for a very long time.

He remained on his knees for a few moments more. Any attempt at recalling what had just happened led to a hole in his memory. He knew what had happened, but his mind wouldn't allow him to relive it. In fact, he could no longer retrieve and walk through any memories that involved his ex-flatmate. Mike Stamford never introduced him to an out-of-work soldier. He was never saved by a broken man when he threatened to swallow the pill. When he called on the roof no one answered.

He didn't remember why he was so happy to finally return to London. He couldn't recall who he made an awkward speech for at a wedding. He shot and killed Magnussen for no reason. And when he got on the plane to fly away to his inevitable death, he felt no reason to be sad.

Sherlock stood up slowly, walking stiffly over to his desk. He opened one of the drawers, grabbed out the small rubber tubing and pre-filled syringe, then disappeared into his room.


End file.
